


the storyteller winds the scraps together

by WonderlandJudas



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Wicked + The Divine
Genre: Ananke should really pay attention to the side characters in her story, Cannibalism, Crossover, Death, Herpo inventes Horcruxes, Horcrux Creation, Horcrux origins, Horcruxes, M/M, Pantheon from the 1100s BC, The Pantheon dies, like always, spoilers for The Wicked + The Divine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:48:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22289680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WonderlandJudas/pseuds/WonderlandJudas
Summary: In Ancient Greece, the pantheon burns and Ananke lives on; meanwhile, after watching Nergal burn, and a conversation with the still-living Athena, Herpo invents the first horcrux.
Relationships: Ananke and Herpo the Foul
Comments: 5
Kudos: 4





	the storyteller winds the scraps together

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in like seven years, and it involves a main character from The Wicked + The Divine and a rather obscure character from the Harry Potter canon. It's a rumination on a germ of an idea I had when I first started reading WicDiv, and it began to work as context for a story I want to write involving the same crossover. This probably won't get a lot of hits because of the sheer niche of the characters, but I hope those who read it enjoy it anyway. 
> 
> That being said, I have an outline of what more in this story can look like; I'm not sure on whether or not I'll be able to write it with any sort of consistency, but I definitely have a plan. Everything else just depends on reactions to this story and my availability to write. 
> 
> Warnings: References to death by immolation, both self and to others, cannabalism, as well as vague m/m sexual references. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Obviously, I don't own any of these works. Thank you for reading.

Greece, 1105BC: 

Nergal, the god of the underworld, performs his magic and it is _more_ than anything Herpo had ever seen. The paltry little tricks he learned as a temple scribe--levitation, speaking to snakes, pyromancy, _everything_ \--pale in comparison to Nergal and his divinity. 

And so, Herpo loses himself in Nergal and his magic, becoming one of his follower-worshipper-lovers and losing himself in the embrace of both Nergal and the power he weaves for them. It is a dance with death, Herpo understands, because only through death could one understand as much as Nergal does. Whenever he gazes at the god, with his black robes and horned skull on his head, Herpo feels power and love and death. He soaks it all up, whenever he feels the magic, whenever he feels Nergal, because Herpo knows that when the two years are up, Nergal will be gone and Herpo will be left empty and bereft. 

Herpo is determined to go with him. 

“When he was human, Nergal was my best friend,” he confides to the young girl that had spoken to his lord earlier. “But that was before.” 

The girl looks at him. She is clad in a fine purple tunic, her black hair falling in ringlets down the side of her brown face. There is an owl flying at her side. 

“And you are no longer?” She asks, almost as if curious. 

“Can one be friends with divinity?” Herpo replies. “But I still hold a position of importance to him,” he assures her. And he does. Rarely does a night go by that he does not grace his lord’s bed, and he knows that Nergal has a soft spot for him, as he is never allowed to go far from the god’s side. 

“Divinity is divinity and it is death,” the girl replies. The wisdom of her words echo in her golden eyes and Herpo understands.

“You are one of them,” Herpo states, because she is. The power is there, muted and different, but like Nergal’s in so many ways. She, too, will die in two years, burnt up and young. 

“Yes, like them, but different.” 

“Younger, you mean?” For they are all young, but she is a child-maiden still. 

“Something like that,” She replies. “I must be leaving,” she states, noticing Nergal emerging from his cave. She follows his lord and Nergal engages her in conversation with a loving smile. 

“Goodbye, Athena,” Herpo whispers behind her. 

Three years later, Herpo knows better. He has learned. He knows the reality of a dance with death, he knows it brings nothing but sorrow. Sorrow beyond the emptiness Herpo thought he would feel. His throat is parched and he is overheated; the scars on his lips burn with the memory of Nergal’s last breaths, with his lord’s last moments of divinity. He can taste the ash of his lover’s corpse and his ears echo the deaths of Nergal’s worshippers. 

Nergal’s magic, almost as if testament to his love for Herpo, had spared the man and him alone. The rest of the supplicants had burned with their god, to follow him into the throes of death. 

Herpo wished that he had burned too, for he could not survive the death of divinity. However, the darkest part of him was glad to survive for death did not bring knowledge, it only brought tragedy and pain. Death that could burn divinity was a horrifying concept that Herpo recoiled from, because how could anything that destroyed something as precious as Nergal be anything but _wrong_? Herpo thought he understood, had thought that Nergal understood, but he remembered Nergal’s death, the hopelessness in his eyes, his lips twisted in pain, as he burned. 

Knowledge of death had bought nothing but pain for everyone involved. 

This pain reproduced itself, as Herpo lay in the dusty street, clothed in the same attire he had worn when Nergal burned and being ignored by the rest of the city. He could do nothing about death, so he waited for Thanatos to come for him and lead him to his lord. He wished to be embraced by Nergal forever, because there were no other options. 

Everything dies, including divinity. 

Herpo remembered the stories he heard as he lay in alleyways. Even several years later, people would not stop discussing them, the pantheon, and their deaths. Lovely Ishtar, consumed by her love, her body found lying in her palace alongside her whole flock of followers, all of whom experienced exquisite ecstasy right before their death. Poseidon, who was lost into the tempestous waves of the sea; Ares and Dionysus, both consumed by their followers, in an orgy of war and sex and flesh. He wasn’t sure what had happened to Osiris, but it was whispered that the god had rotted himself to death after murdering the most beautiful Paean and many of his worshippers during the sun god’s holiest ritual. Colorful flowers still grew where their corpses had decayed. Sito Potnia, the last god standing, had carved her body up and fed the fields to feed her birth city during a siege. She had no gift for war, so growth was the only thing she could do. It is said that they tried to put her back together, but the townspeople could never find her head. _Our lady, the Earth-Mother_ , her people called her now, their voice reverent and their bellies full. And shining Helios, the last god found, the poor girl she once was, the reflection of the bright, bright sun, had burned, just like Nergal-- 

_Oh Nergal, why did you forsake me?_ Herpo thought, once more. 

The days and nights passed, and Herpo moved from alleyway to dusty street, city to city, living off his own magic and the food kind souls would give him. Herpo knew he was consuming himself, and he was fine with it, because it meant that he was slowly making his way back to Nergal. 

_Everything will be better back in his embrace, it will_ . _It has to be._

It was one hot summer day, one thousand and thirty seven days after Nergal’s death, when he saw her. _Alive._

“Come this way, my lady,” her attendant said. Two guards accompanied her, and she was _alive_. Walking down the marketplace, clothed in a white tunic trimmed in vibrant red, clasped together by a belt dripping in golden beads, she breathed. Her bracelet glinted in the sun, the golden skulls belying her supposed death. 

Herpo’s magic reacted to this surprise, there was no intent whatsoever. He appeared in front of her with a loud crack. A wave of his hands, and her two guards were thrown into opposite buildings. A circle of fire conjured itself around the two, burning loudly in the street. The people began to scream and run away, but Herpo only had eyes for one person. 

“ _Athena_ ,” he hissed. Athena, with the golden eyes, who had disappeared the same day that Diktaios had ascended into the heavens, only a few days before the Erinyes had fought amongst each other, destroying themselves. It was believed that Diktaios has killed Athena before his ascension, and that Tisiphone had killed her sisters in a rage after failing to stop it. 

A pause and then she opened her mouth--

“I don’t know who that is, sir--”

“Lies!” Herpo screamed, his magic reverberating through the air. “I remember your eyes, _Athena_. She-who-came-out-of-her-father’s-head. The youngest of the recurrence, she-who-disappeared.” 

“Oh.” She replied, the mockery of fear on her face fading away into annoyance. “It’s you. Nergal’s little toy.” 

“How-,” he began. “How are you alive? Why are you alive?!” _And why is Nergal dead?_

Athena rolled her eyes, glancing around at the empty marketplace. Vendors had already been packing up for the day, and Herpo’s display of violence had only sped things along. Many of the shoppers had also ran away, frightened by the display of magic, something they only saw in rituals and during recurrences, both of which this was not. The general vicinity was empty, and Herpo was sure they would not be overheard. 

“It was nothing that Nergal could have done,” Athena said, dismissively. “He was not one to exist in pieces nor was he capable of grounding himself. He lacked patience and would have burned up eventually.” 

“How dare you--” 

“I _dare_ because I am right,” Athena hisses back. She looks at him in anger, and, slowly, her look becomes one of speculation. “Divinity is fickle, you know.” 

“What do you mean?” Herpo asks, upset at the deviation. 

“Sometimes the numbers don’t add up and the pantheon is more of an audition and less of a calling,” she replies. “It’s a story about gods and their divinity and death, yes, but it can be much more than that.”

“Nergal was not just a story!”

“In the end, we’re all just stories,” Athena replies, softly. “You just need to ground yourself and hold on as the story keeps going. Half of you needs to perform the tale and the other half needs to make sure to tell the right story to make sure you keep living in its words. The most important part is the waiting.” 

“Is that what you did? Luck yourself into some way of living in a story?” Herpo spat, his face flushing. “How dare you stand here and spout nonsense after the way Nergal died?! Why did he burn and _you_ survive? What did you do?!”

“I’ve already told you,” Athena replied. She sighed. “Two parts of me function in much different methods. One is the performer and one stays standing, waiting for the story to continue.” She looks at him then. “Sometimes, a story is a way to keep breathing.” 

“I could tell them, you know,” Herpo said, angry and Athena’s babbling and her simple existence when Nergal-- “I could tell them you survived and I’m sure they would never leave you--” 

“They’ll never believe you,” Athena replied with a laugh. “I mean, look at you. Half-crazed, your own body consuming itself. A beggar. One of Nergal’s _leftovers_ . What will they say when you start babbling about the still-living Athena? Everyone knows that Diktaios killed her. _His poor mind is gone_ , they’ll say.” She smirks at him. “And if your start throwing around your little magic, they’ll mark you as dangerous, and just kill you faster. You have no power here. This story does not sustain _you_.” 

This time, Herpo’s magic manifested as fire in his hands. “You bitch--” 

Athena smiled cruelly and snapped her fingers. A rush of air passed by and hit her, ripping her fine clothing, scattering her golden jewelry. He looked at her, confused as to why she would hurt herself and she smiled, right before screaming. 

The sound pierced the air and with it came the footsteps of the town guards, who must have been called as soon as Herpo manifested magic.

“Help! Help me!” Athena screamed, her voice high pitched, scrabbling on the floor to get away from him. “Oh gods, please help me!” 

“Lady Parthenos!” One of the guards exclaimed. Herpo turned around and was greeted with pain blossoming across his face. Something hard hit the back of his head and his eyes began to water. 

“H-he tried to hurt m-me,” Herpo heard Athena blubber. “He was s-screaming about his Lord Nergal and about a s-sacrifice to bring him b-back--” 

His arms were twisted behind his back and his magic was too disoriented to do anything and he tried to say something to defend himself--

The world went dark. 

It had been almost a month since Herpo had been imprisoned in this city that he had wandered into and he languished in his cell. For almost a month, the heat has burned his mind and, during this time, the pain in his lips was a constant memory. Almost a month since he had seen Athena, goddess of the pantheon, the fourth emerged of the last recurrence, still breathing after her two years and it made no sense. 

_In two years, you’ll be dead_ , Nergal had recited to him the words the old woman told him, one night after a ritual. _That means I have two years on this mortal earth before I die and come back for another recurrence._ Herpo had ignored his words in favor of kissing him once more. 

The recurrence was something that people had heard about; as a potential scribe at a temple, Herpo had heard about it. But it was never so formulaic, not the way that Nergal implied. The gods, several of them, showed themselves for two years, in human bodies, but never after a specific set of time--or did they? Was it all simply a story? Did they show up at a specific moment in a specific number for a specific time and then die? Were they really even gods? 

No, the power was real. Herpo had felt it from Nergal. He had felt it whenever Herpo and Nergal had been to Ishtar’s temple, and once from Paean. He had seen Ares in action. Herpo remembered Helios and the heat of her power on his skin. They were gods. There was no other explanation. 

But then what did Athena mean? What was her babbling about a story? Did he simply have to create a story where Nergal was still alive? Could it be that simple to see his lord once more?

No. Nergal was dead. Herpo has seen his corpse. He had tasted the ash of Nergal’s immolation. It was too late for his love. He could not come back. And even if he did come back, it wouldn’t be his Nergal. It was too late to save him and no magic, no story could do it. 

Herpo remembered the fiery kiss, Nergal’s screams, the burning on his lips and he shivered. Death was forever imminent, Herpo knew. It was too late to save Nergal. 

_...But is it too late to save myself?_

It might not be. Despite Athena’s delphic ramblings, she was not necessarily wrong: a story implied specific situations and conditions to be met by the storyteller and the main characters. It required definitions and applications. Just like any part of a human ritual. Despite his fervent wish to see Nergal once more, Herpo cherished the idea of living on, of not meeting the sorrow of death. Death brought nothing but pain, as Nergal's eyes liked to remind him. 

_You need to ground yourself and make sure part of you is telling the story and the other part performs it,_ Athena had implied. What did that mean? That there had to be two of you?

Herpo had known Helios before she became Helios. A girl from a merchant family, she had been caught up with divinity. Seduced by Ishtar, touched by Poseidon, and a follower Paean, she had eventually gone to one of Nergal’s rituals. That’s how they met. Herpo had nothing but good memories of Helios, the bright sun god. 

She would frequently visit him after she ascended. _You knew me and loved me before,_ she would say. _And you’ll be here after. If I could leave a small piece of myself, of my heart, with you, I would. You could hold onto me and I will live because I will always be with you._

 _Don’t be silly_ , Herpo would reply. _Why would you want to stay here, when divinity is waiting for you?_

She would laugh and nod, hugging him. 

Helios had been the twelfth god found, and the eighth god to die, burning to a crisp, her mortal body unable to handle her own light. The eighth, after the Erinyes, right before Nergal burned himself and his followers. Before Osiris killed Paean, his own lover and himself. Before Sito Potnia mutilated herself to death.

_A small piece of myself…_

_Two parts of me and one stays_..., Athena had said. 

“One must be two,” Herpo whispered. He needed to be two, not just one. He needed to anchor himself so he could stay grounded. So he could survive the story, according to Athena’s explanation. 

Herpo eyed the solemn guard outside. _How does one split themselves into two? How does one use that to escape death?_

Herpo thought back to his lessons on magic at the temple, before he had gotten caught up with the pantheon. _There was magic_ , the high priest had said, _and it can be used for two things: good and bad. Good is life and bad is death, for magic is natural but cannot be used for unnatural purposes._

 _Death is natural_ , they had said, _if it is the will of the gods. But otherwise it is unnatural. Death before its time is unnatural._

 _If death before its time is unnatural, then it would figure that life after its time is unnatural as well_ , Herpo mused, his thoughts running beyond him. _So if I want unnatural life, then I need unnatural death._

 _I need a death. But how do I split myself? How do I anchor myself to mortality? Athena said that one must stay standing, it must be still._ Herpo considered this. _Helios wanted to leave a small piece of herself--her mind? No, her soul. So she could be with me always, with a small piece of her heart._

_The heart is...the soul. It is the container of the soul. I need an unnatural death for an unnatural life. So I could be here, always._

Herpo eyed the guard once more, taking note of the guard’s dagger. _Rituals are spontaneous if you’re a god_ , Nargal once said. 

Herpo thought of Nergal, his green eyes and his tight embrace. His godhood, the divinity coursing through him. His burning body and pained face as he died. But why did he die? Because it was preordained? 

_Because he was told he would? Because Nergal, the god, was merely a story?_

Herpo felt his magic come to him once more, as he eyed the guard. He was going to be better than a god. He was going to escape death. He needed definitions, he needed to apply them. 

“Hello,” Herpo said, looking at the guard in the eye. “Will you come to me?” 

The guard attempted to resist. Herpo’s magic flared. 

“Come to me,” Herpo chanted, his magic guiding the man, as the guard began to walk to the cell. “You will come to me for I rule you. I rule you. Come to me.” 

The guard reached the cell. 

“Unlock it,” Herpo stated. 

The guard unlocked the cell, removing the chain that held it closed. Herpo looked into the guard’s black eyes, which stared at him unblinking. He grabbed the dagger at the guard’s hip and gripped it. Herpo put his hand on the guard’s leather armor, and began to tug it open, revealing the man’s chest. 

“The heart is the container of the soul, I need an unnatural death,” Herpo repeated. “I must be two. One will turn to two.” 

He closed his eyes and jammed the dagger under the man’s chest bone, and into the heart. The guard gasped, as if aware of his death. Herpo opened his eyes, catching the dying man, and laid him on the floor of the cell. Slowly, as if unsure, Herpo began to cut through the viscera between the ribs of the dead guard, eventually making a hole where he could see part of the man’s heart. 

“An unnatural death will grant unnatural life,” Herpo repeated. “The heart is the container of the soul.” 

He reached into the hole in the man’s chest and grabbed a piece of the warm heart. Cutting it with the knife, he shakily put it in his mouth and began to chew. 

_I need to be two_ , he thought. _The container of the soul is the heart and my soul needs to be two. I need to be two. I need to be two so I may anchor myself and weather the story. I need to be two so I may live._

Herpo swallowed the piece of meat. 

With that part of his ritual complete, Herpo began to feel it, the magic, vibrating within his skin. His chest hurt, his vision blurred. He felt the dagger, the receptacle, the anchor, vibrating. 

_A story is meant to be told_ , Herpo thought. _A god is meant to be worshipped. A dagger is meant to be used._

Herpo stuck the dagger in his belly and he felt a fragment of himself move sluggishly from within his body and crawl into the dagger, settling itself into the cracks of the metal. Immediately, the metal began to shine with the warmth of life, of the foul acts he committed to stay alive. 

Minutes passed. The wound in his stomach began to knit itself together. Herpo sat on the floor next to a cooling body, his dagger, his receptacle, vibrating with life in his hand. He picked it up and looked at it, savoring his result, savoring his newfound immortality. 

“Goodbye Nergal,” Herpo whispered, sadly. “I love you, but I shall never see you again. For I am what you and the rest of the gods cannot be. _Immortal_.”

**Author's Note:**

> The references to the Greek 1100s pantheon are all created by me so none of them are canon. I did some research on greek myths, specifically the Mycenaean stuff, but not everything is correct, as I did not research as thoroughly as I would have liked. If you have an questions about that feel free to ask in the comments or PM me.
> 
> Also, yes, I am aware of the differences in canon Horcrux creation and what happens in the story. 1, they're small differences, and 2, there's a reason for it. The story demanded it, y'all. ;)


End file.
